1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4normal one aims to be and share the throne
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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